Laid Low by a Lovesong
by Capt. Cow
Summary: Valentines Day fic, in which love is considered, and, in some cases, mourned. Semi-sequel to Roses and Thorns.


**In which nobody really celebrates Valentines Day (again)**

_**Disclaimer: Obviously a 19 year old Australian does not own the rights to Robin Hood. Because if she did Marian would still be with us, and Will and Djaq would never have developed that unhealthy pigeon obsession.**_

**Well, this story is set one year on from last years Valentines Story "Roses and Thorns". It is a stand alone, but might be worth reading the other one too. They are sort of a set. I thought of writing a direct sequel to that, but there wasn't as far to go with that one, so I am trying to put some distance between this story and the end of season two. **

**Reviews are always appreciated! Please leave me one!**

* * *

**Much**

* * *

It is raining. Not light, gentle rain, the kind that caresses the skin, but hard, cold, never ending rain. Were he to step outside he would be soaked and frozen to the bone in seconds. Much, not for the first time, sends a thankyou to Will for the sturdy camp he built them. It does leak sometimes, without their resident carpenter to make repairs it will never be as perfect as it once was, but it keeps the rain off far better than a simple tree, and it holds heat like no cave ever could.

Sitting there, staring at the wall of rain hammering against the forest, Much has to question the way weather is always so wrong for the occasion. Last year, when the pain of losing Marian was still so raw, so jagged amongst them, this day had dawned bright and beautiful, mocking them all in their misery, Robin especially. Had it rained like this he would at least have known that whoever was in control at least appreciated the pain that they were experiencing, would have felt that at least some being in the universe understood him at that moment.

This year Robin had disappeared before he woke up, which worried Much, but he knew better than to try and find Robin when he wanted to be left alone. There had been enough explosive confrontations between the two over the past year without him searching one out. Robin's grief had made him a different man, harder, more impulsive with his words than anyone could have dreamed of previously. Much, on the other hand, had somehow found himself the one tasked with restoring a sense of purpose to men who had lost too much. It was not so much a role reversal that has taken place over the past year, but a role explosion, sending the four of them into territory none of them had ever previously considered entering. Too often, he thought, he and Robin had disagreed about how things should be handled. They had both spent the time realising that their friendship, which had always been so strong, was too closely linked to the roles of servant and master. Much making suggestions, and having them listened to by the other men, rankled with Robin more than either of them cared to admit.

Little John had remained in the camp this morning, he is attempting to cook something over the fire, though Much can see that his heart is not really in it, he has sat for the past five minutes staring into the rain, apparently unaware of the volume of water that is dripping onto him through the leaky roof. He wonders if he should say something, perhaps mention to the big man that the smell his meal was making suggested it was no longer fit for human or animal consumption, but decided against it. They had all lost someone they loved, after all, and today was as much a day of mourning as it was anything to do with romance.

Much liked to allow himself time on this day to think of Eve. Only once a year, never for too long. It doesn't pay to let your thoughts wander to what can never be after all. Last year, on the beautiful day that should have been thundering and dismal, he went to Bonchurch Lodge, just for a look. He knew that she worked there no longer, she had moved to another situation, though none of the servants there could tell him where, but the lodge evoked feelings of nostalgia in him that no where else really could. He had sat there, just watching, from a hillock nearby, once again giving himself the day to imagine what could have been.

It had been nice, that day, to sit and pretend that the war was over, and they had won, to relive the euphoria he had felt as they crested the hill towards Locksley after being away for so long, before they realised the evil that had settled in the country, before Robin saved those men at the expense of their futures. He had let go of the pain of losing Marian, his fear for Robin, the feelings of betrayal that wouldn't be suppressed when he considered Will and Djaq. Bonchurch had been the thing that had gotten him through the chaos of the Holy Land, he had tried to picture it at night before he fell asleep, so that he didn't fall asleep thinking of bodies, and wounds, and the never ending need to kill. Now he needed it again to work its magic, to help him heal and forget.

The first year in the forest he had still believed it possible, had been naïve enough to think he would one day be its master. For months after the experience with Eve he had dreamed of her, of them, of the life they could lead. He pictured children, pretty little girls in flowing dresses, who had never known him as a servant, who could never, even if only for a second, forget that he was a freed man. He saw sons, who knew nothing of war, who wanted to be healers, and musicians, any profession that had nothing to do with fighting.

When Marian died, the first time, not the second, Much had put all thoughts out of his head. Finally it occurred to him just how long a war he had settled in for, and he recognised that there was no room in this world the Sheriff ruled, no room for fantasies and children named after flowers, _Lily, Rose, Peony, _there was only room for vigilance, for fear, and cunning and fighting.

But he did allow himself this one day, just as he had so soon after Marian died the final time, to sit and bask in the love of an imaginary family, to think of Eve, and wonder about where she was now, if she spent this day thinking of him, if she too saw the children who were as real to him as the Marian Robin still spoke too. He could hear her laugh, once a year, and see her face, feel her touch on his skin, and the whisper of her words in his ear. He could picture Bonchurch, the lodge that he has been thinking of for years now, filled with their love, their family, their happiness.

In many ways, Much wants this day to last forever, so that he doesn't have to push her away, to forget her. But at the same time, he thinks, as Allan can be heard stumping back into camp and shaking off the water he is covered in, as the sun starts to set, as the recognition that Marian is dead, Robin is still _broken, _still hurting after so long, starts to set in he wonders if it is easier not to allow himself these thoughts, because it hurts too much when the day ends.

* * *

**­Will**

* * *

It was never supposed to be this hard. He knows this, just like he knows his own name. The image of marriage that Will has is tinged with sorrow and pain, he has seen what too much love can do to a family, watched his father grieve his mother, but at the same time when he thinks of the times his family spent together, he sees fun, and laughter. His parents always seemed to know what one another were thinking; his mother seemed always to steal his father's words, as though she had the power to borrow his voice. It was a power that only love could give them. His father, in turn, would tease her, sneak up on her as she cooked and give her a fright, just so she realised that she couldn't predict him all the time. In the beginning it was a home filled with laughter and dancing, towards the end it was a house burdened by what wasn't being said, by a terrible knowledge of things that were coming. Even then, however, there was no shouting, no ill will, just pain that came from being unable to help the ones you loved.

The marriage Will finds himself in is nothing like the example he has been set by his own parents. Everything is a struggle, everywhere he seems to be stepping on regulations, on customs he has not been aware of. They have their own home now, financed partly by Basaam, but mostly by his own craftsmanship. He works hard, crafting things, his love of whittling now transformed into a way of supporting his family. It is hard though, despite his skill he is still trying to work on the wrong side of a war. Not everyone is interested in wares that are made by the enemy. He hates feeling indebted, and so is desperate to make money, no matter how close Safiah and Basaam are, Will does not want to be seen as a freeloader, on top of all the other derogatory things that he is considered.

There is a sick longing in his stomach for the forests of England, for the village in which he spent his childhood, for Luke, and Allan, and Robin and Much and John. For rain, and sleet, and frost and fog. He is still recognisable as the pale, quiet carpenter who joined Robin all those years ago, but there is a darker shade to him, not just his skin, which has tanned in the beating sun, but inside too. He has had to adjust, to build a wall around his emotions so he can protect himself from the never ending jeers and put downs, the way people asking him to craft them things flick their eyes up and down him, as though unable to think of parting with their money to someone who doesn't deserve it.

He and Djaq, who is no longer Djaq but _Safiah, _something which he can never seem to get used too, cannot seem to recapture the easy friendship and passion to be near each other that led them together in the first place. There is a part of him that cannot forgive her the existence he is living, that blames her for the constant ache for home, that thinks she should have _warned_ him of the life he would be left with. He knows he loves her, knows that if he didn't he would have packed up and jumped on the next ship home, but everything is a struggle, and he can't help but notice the cracks that are appearing in their relationship, cracks that have been splintering ever since she told him she was staying here, and left the rest of the decision up to him.

_Safiah_ is a person with whom Will no longer feels comfortable. She oscillates between following the rules of her culture to the letter, now that she has begun to remember the customs drilled into her from childbirth, and being angry and bitter about the way society treats her as a flower, and not the intelligent woman that she is. He finds himself unable to predict her moods, and, not having ever been particularly good with words, struggles to say the right thing even when he picks her feelings correctly. Either he is too critical of the processes of her homeland, or he does not support her enough when she tries to buck the system. The sense of humour that he loved so much in Sherwood is only seen in tired glimpses now, in those moments few and far between when they both find the person they fell in love with at the same moment. He misses her smile, misses her laugh, and the glimmer in her eyes.

When he realises it is the day of lovers, as the day is starting to wear down and he finally finishes the piece he has been _crafting_ (there is not time for whittling here) he finds himself laughing, though there is nothing funny about it. Last year he had remembered days in advance, had made her a rose as a project to keep his mind of Marian, his own betrayal, his homesickness. He had assumed that by the same time the next year things would be different, he would be used to this place that never seems right, this world he cannot find his feet in.

_Safiah_ has been absent all day, and he thinks that she must have forgotten the day as well, after all it was never her holiday to begin with, and he decides, wiping the dust of his hands and heading indoors, that perhaps he should not mention it, it will only conjure memories of a time, of feelings, neither of them can get back.

Entering the tiny house though, seeing the meal she has prepared, the clumsily carved centrepiece of a man and a woman holding hands, the smile in her eyes that has been absent for weeks, he thinks that maybe they have a chance after all.

* * *

**Allan**

* * *

Allan likes to think that this day holds no meaning for him. He has never been married like John, has never lost the woman he loves to the sword of another, has never considered himself the family type. He tells himself that he leaves the camp at the crack of dawn only so he doesn't have to witness the misery of others; the Sheriff and Gisbourne cause enough pain through the rest of the year without the other outlaws moping around and depressing him too.

At first he just walks, it is raining, pouring down all around him, as though the Lord is judging them over something, as though another flood is coming. Allan can't bring himself to care, as soon as he stepped out of the camp he was soaking wet, now only the pressure of the raindrops reminds him that water still falls from the sky. He is trying to think of nothing, to empty his mind and leave himself with no memories, no thoughts at all. This day of lovers only makes him relive things he would sooner forget; to him love is only something that hurts. In his life there is a never ending stream of examples why he should avoid the whole concept. His parents, who swore to love one another, fought constantly, shouting, throwing things, scaring their children with the intensity of their hate. The first woman he was close to, the one who couldn't understand that he stole to try and make their lives better, the one who left the same day he bought the ring. He thinks of Robin, who has been a shell of a man for more than a year, of John, whose eyes shine with pain he never speaks of, of Gisbourne, the man who love turned into a monster.

He tries very hard not to think of Will, or Djaq, though finds that he can't stop picturing her face, her words. He has never stopped wondering what could have happened if he had listened to her, the day he was thrown out of the gang. She knew him better than he could ever know himself, saw a quality in him that he wishes he could find again. He only admits it once, standing there in the rain, soaked to the skin, but he loved her, loves her still, will always love her. He hates her too though, hates her for not trying harder to make him do the right thing, for letting him walk away from them, for falling in love with his best friend. Hates her not only for leaving them, but for taking Will away too.

Allan wonders if Will ever thinks it was unfair that love made him give up everything he ever knew.

He adds it to the mental list of reasons why being in love is not something he wants any part of, and then shuts Djaq out of his mind, the way he has shut out Tom, and Marian, and all the other people he has loved and lost.

Inevitably he finds himself in a pub, which is surprisingly empty, considering the rain outside. He thinks, somewhat bitterly, that all the lovers must not care about the weather, and pictures them dancing together, laughing hysterically, loving the opportunity to spend time together.

He finds a booth at the back, and nurses his drink, considering it carefully, just one of many tactics not to think about the purpose of today. The man who swings himself into the seat opposite Allan is unrecognisable at first. His hair is matted and dirty, his face covered in a beard that makes him seem like a wild man. His clothes are dirty too, though it is clear under the mud that they are well made and new. Allan thinks that perhaps, as a wild rich man rather than a scrappy poor man, he is more dangerous than anyone can know.

The voice, when the man speaks, is almost unchanged, there is still the undertone of anger that was always there, though now it is also filled with bitterness, and a hard unfeeling that sends shivers down the outlaw's spine.

"Shouldn't you be out in a forest somewhere celebrating with your outlaw chums?"

Gisbourne's words seem rhetorical, but he stares at Allan intently, apparently expecting an answer.

"Bit wet." Allan replies carefully, still unsure exactly what Gisbourne is up too. He tries to check the exits for soldiers, and curses the lack of visibility he has from his seat. Misery has made him careless. Should he be captured, he will blame love for that as well.

Gisbourne has, as yet, made no move to call over guards, and so Allan stays where he is, waiting for the other man to make the next move.

"I like days like today," Allan's former employer says, "because I do not see her as clearly." What had previously seemed to be menace in his tone is becoming recognisable as self-loathing as he speaks, and the outlaw, not really sure what to do about being drawn into confidence with a man he should technically hate, stays silent.

"When it is sunny I see her face as though she is standing in front of me. I killed her on a sunny day. It should have been raining though, like this, the world should have mourned her. The weather itself should have mourned her."

Allan nods, feeling like a rabbit about to be mauled by a morose wolf. Pain and sadness have made Gisbourne even crueller over the past year, he has ordered the soldiers to be harsher, penalties to be harder, attacks on the outlaws to be nastier. It is Gisbourne's anger that led to Much needing a last minute rescue from the noose earlier in the year, that saw John tortured for information.

Gisbourne has paused now, he is staring at a wall, too lost in the past to recognise where he is, who he is talking too. Allan considers making a run for it, but rejects the idea, he is inexplicably curious, wants to take this opportunity to understand how the man in front of him could kill the woman they all loved.

"I see her laughing, when I fall asleep. Every night for more than a year she laughs and laughs in my head. I can never make her stop." Allan doesn't think Gisbourne even realises he is there anymore, he just sits silent, watching.

Suddenly the man opposite him rears up, like a snake preparing to strike, and Allan thinks this is going to be the moment when he dies.

"Why am I still alive?" Gisbourne bellows, startling the whole room. "Why does Robin not kill me? Why does he force me to keep living?" He breaks down then, sobbing loud and angry tears, self-hatred colouring his face.

It is then that Allan decides to take his leave, and he eases past his former boss and hurries out into the rain again. He is not in danger of being lost in the forest, he knows it too well, so he takes no note of his route and just runs and runs, until he is too cold to keep going. Then he slumps to the ground, and allows tears to pour down his face, and he cries like he hasn't since he was a child. They keep falling, because Marian loved Robin, but she also loved Gisbourne, just a little tiny bit, and it got her killed. Because Djaq had loved him, and he had loved her, but she had loved Will too, and he hadn't left her behind for money, so she had taken him away, off to the Holy Land never to be seen again. He sits there a long time, unable to think of anything but loneliness, and sadness, and consequences and death.

Then the sun begins to sink, and Allan pulls himself off the ground, wiping his face as he makes his way back to camp. He thinks he was probably better off, years ago, before he met Robin and joined this crusade. When this day of lovers really did mean nothing to him.

* * *

**Well, there you go. This story went through a lot of forms, Djaq was going to die in childbirth, Much was going to be in love with Robin, Gisbourne was going to stab Allan the way he stabbed Marian, and so on. I think this is the version that works best. **

**That said, I'm not exactly sure of my feelings for it. I wanted Will and Djaq to be happier, but couldn't see them working in the Holy Land, I wanted Much to have a family, because he would be so cute with kids, but didn't want him to have left the gang. Hmmm. I really like my Gisbourne though, usually he is a character I can't sympathise with, but I have tried here. **

**Please let me know what you think! And, of course, enjoy Valentines Day, all ye who have something better to do than sit at home and watch chick fliks. **


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